Before the Beginning
by MusicCityDiva
Summary: Have you ever wondered what our Friends were like before the series pilot? How did they become the six we know today? This story is now REVISED and UPDATED with a new Chandler chapter!! Please read and review!
1. Monica: Best Left Forgotten

Foreword:  And to the tune of considerable fanfare and merriment, here it is!  My first Friends fan fic!  Well, the first chapter of my first Friends fan fic.  This story begins about 2 years before the pilot episode.  So please, read, enjoy, and review!

Author's Note:  I've done my best to stay very true to the little time references scattered throughout the show, but as you probably know, there are a lot of conflicts and mistakes.  I've done my best, though!

Disclaimer:  Of course I don't own any of these characters.  If I did, I would probably not be posting fan fiction on this website.  I would have my name in bold letters in the credits of must-see TV.  Maybe someday.

Copyright 2002 MusicCityDiva

**Monica: **_Best Left Forgotten_

            Monica Geller flung open the door of the room that had been hers for twenty-four years and grinned at the emptiness of it.  Four more boxes.  Just four more and she would be gone.  Out of her parents' house forever.

She had never planned on living here this long.  But when her best friend from high school, Rachel Green, had drifted out of her life, their plans for getting a swanky apartment in the city had vanished as well.

After all, it wasn't like she had had any other high school pals to turn to.  No one had wanted to be friends with the fat girl--even if she did happen to make the world's best devil's food cake.  And by the time she had gotten thin enough to be mistaken for an entirely different person, she had all ready graduated high school.  There had been potential to make friends at the culinary academy she had attended, but living off campus had hindered that.  Besides, halfway through her first year, she had been too preoccupied with thoughts of the boy she could never have to care about meeting new guys within her reach.  

Chandler Bing.  Monica smiled ruefully at the thought of her first real crush.  She remembered how she used to doodle his name on the covers of all her notebooks.  

_Chandler Bing._

_Mr. and Mrs. Chandler Bing._

_Monica Geller-Bing._

_Monica + Chandler = 4-Ever._

It was a goofy name--one Rachel used to make fun of constantly and had probably led to the fizzling of the girls' friendship.  Monica had tearfully confessed her yearning for Chandler to her best friend, but soon wished she hadn't as Rachel's popularity amplified and Monica's dwindled more than ever.  Monica's unrequited crush suddenly became fuel for Rachel's jokes as Monica's so-called best friend began to make sure the popular kids were within earshot before asking Monica "So how's Chandler Bing?"  And then she'd make that irritating _'bing!' _sound--every single time.  

            Whether it was for Rachel's sake or for her own, Monica wasn't sure, but she eventually stopped calling Rachel completely.  Her brother Ross was almost more upset about the situation than Monica was, in light of his lingering crush on Rachel.  Monica never had the heart to confide in her brother her feelings for his roommate, letting Ross instead believe that the damaged friendship was her own fault.  _It was just as well_, she thought.  The Greens had recently joined a country club, and Rachel had been enthralled by "the scene" as she liked to call it.  

            Monica's hopes had increased dramatically when Ross asked Chandler to be best man at his wedding to his college girlfriend Carol the summer after his and Chandler's graduation.  This was it--her big chance.  Monica fervently planned every detail, from getting Chandler alone to confessing her undying love to his fervent acceptance to their own 'happily ever after'.  Dazzled by wedding fever, Monica began to revel in fantasies of her own big day, even pulling out the wedding book she had been compiling as long as she could remember.  The day of Ross' and Carol's wedding, Monica walked dreamily down the aisle on Chandler's arm, thinking more of her chances with Chandler than of her brother's big event.  

             But her plans of making a move were shattered at the reception when Chandler announced his plans to move upstate for an entry-level data processing job.  Gripping the letter she had composed for him in one hand, Monica quietly excused herself from the head table before discreetly rushing to nurse her grief in the privacy of the ladies' restroom.  

_'I guess that's the one that got away.'  _Monica shook herself out of her reverie and resisted the nostalgic urge to rummage through the last four boxes in an effort to find that letter that she knew she'd saved.__

'_Later_,' she promised herself, as she stacked one box on top of another and proceeded to carry them downstairs.  Ross was waiting next to the doorway, impatiently glaring at his watch.  

"Come on, Mon!"  he whined.  "Carol is supposed to be home by now!"

Monica peered around the stack of boxes to glare back at her brother.  "It would get done faster if I had some help," she retorted pointedly.  "There are two more boxes upstairs."

Ross sighed audibly and trudged up the stairs, muttering to himself the whole way.  Monica rolled her eyes and opened her mouth to yell an insult, but quickly shut it as her parents walked into the room.  

"Now, dear, Ross hasn't carried all those boxes by himself, has he?  Why don't you go help him?"  Judy Geller asked her daughter accusingly before lowering her voice to a conspiratol tone.  "He and Carol are trying to get pregnant, you know.  We don't want Ross under any unnecessary strain."  

"Mom, Ross is under strain when he lifts a pencil, okay?"  Monica retorted.  "Plus, have you really thought this through?  Do we really want a possible prototype of Ross running around?  His kid could be exactly like him!"

Judy smiled dreamily.  "Yes, wouldn't it be wonderful?  To have all those brains in one family!"  She leveled her gaze meaningfully on Monica.  "Besides, I have to do everything I can to ensure that I have a grandchild.  Ross might be my only hope!"

Every defense system in Monica switched to alert.  Not THIS argument again.  "Mother…"

As usual, Jack Geller quickly interrupted his feuding wife and daughter.  "Now, Judy, I'm sure our little Harmonica will meet someone in the city.  Maybe even in her building!"  He smiled at Monica reassuringly.  "Have you got enough money, sweetie?"  

Monica couldn't help but smile at her father, although uneasily.  "Yeah, I'm fine, Dad.  Thanks."

Jack reached out to tousle Monica's hair.  "You're sure?  Laundry money?" he asked, pulling a quarter "magically" from behind Monica's right ear.  

Monica laughed and accepted the quarter.  "I'll use it for my first load, Dad."

Just then, a muffled voice called out from behind a stack of boxes.  Three Gellers turned toward the stairs as the fourth staggered down.  "Can someone give me a hand here?"

Judy flashed Monica a knowing glance as Jack went to help his son.

***

An hour and a half later, all the boxes had been loaded into the U-haul attached to Carol's car, and Monica sat fuming in the front passenger seat as Ross navigated his way towards Monica's new home.  Glancing sideways at his sister, he attempted to initiate conversation once again.

"So do you have everything you need for the apartment?" he asked.

Monica gave a half-hearted shrug.

Ross kept pushing.  "Excited about moving in?  Being on your own for the first time?"

The response this time, as far as Ross could tell, was some sort of affirmative grunt.  That was enough to encourage Ross to pursue the topic.  He searched his mind for something else to say, words flying out of his mouth before he had time to think.

"I can't believe YOU got the apartment.  It took Carol and I forever to find something, and the whole time Nana had the perfect place.  Geez, I wish..."

Monica cut in, turning in her seat to glare at her brother.  "Ross, you all ready have everything!  You're married, you have a good job, and ironically enough, you even have the perfect parents!  Would you please let me have just this one thing?"

Startled, Ross began to protest.  "But I didn't..."

Monica wasn't done talking.  "I appreciate your helping me move in and everything, but after this, I don't really see a reason that we have to hang out more than we have before, just because we live in the same city.  Okay?"  

Ross simply shrugged and turned a stony gaze on the road.  "Yeah.  Fine.  Whatever you want."

Monica fought back feelings of guilt as she realized that she had hurt her brother's feelings.  Biting back an apology, she reminded herself that this was what she wanted.  Total independence.  Freedom to completely reinvent herself.  The ability to forget everything that had led up to this point.  

And with the promise of new beginnings within her grasp, Monica rolled down the window to let in the summer air and really smiled for the first time in months.

***

Whether it was nervous anticipation or simply the New York summer heat, Monica's hands were sweating too much to get a firm grip on her key.  The pile of clothes draped over one arm didn't make the situation any easier.  Monica fumbled with the little piece of metal in another attempt to get it into the lock, and let out a muffled scream of frustration as the key clattered to the floor.  A creak on the stairs made her glance over her shoulder, hoping that Ross had returned, but no more footsteps came.  Turning back to her dilemma, Monica peered around the heap of clothes at the key, silently willing it to jump back into her hands.  No such luck.  Seeing no other options, she leaned slightly sideways in an effort to pick it up without dropping the stack in her arms.  But the situation went from bad to worse as the dress on top began to slide, catching its hanger on the doorknob and bringing the other items with it.  Monica was suddenly blinded as a jacket flopped over her head and the hanger tangled itself in her hair.  She was only dimly aware of a door opening as she began to lose balance.

"Whoa!"  Monica heard a voice exclaim at the exact moment she felt sturdy hands grasp her upper arms in an attempt to keep her upright.  It almost worked, too, except for the evening dress that had somehow gotten wrapped around her left leg.  Monica's attempt to regain her footing only resulted in her sliding dangerously on the hem of the dress, and she crashed to the floor, bringing the greatest portion of her wardrobe—and her rescuer—with her.  

Monica hadn't even managed to remove the clothes covering her face when Ross reappeared.  She heard approaching footsteps come to a sudden halt, and then her brother's voice as he took in the scene. 

"Wha--?  How...how did _this _happen?"  he stuttered unbelieving.

Monica couldn't seem to find the light of day through the stack of clothing covering her.  "I'll explain in a minute, Ross, but do you think maybe you could help me out here?"  No answer.  "Ross?"  She yanked at the hanger tangled in her hair, tearing out quite a few strands, but finally managing to uncover her face.  Looking up at her brother, she saw that he was not stunned into silence by her predicament, but by the man on the ground next to her.  Without standing up, Monica turned and looked into the face of her unfortunate rescuer and saw the last person she'd ever expect.  The three stared at each other for a moment that dragged on forever before Ross found his voice and joyfully exclaimed the name of the man she never thought she'd see again.

"Chandler!"     

TO BE CONTINUED…


	2. Chandler: The Way Memories Linger

Disclaimer:  I don't own them.  Any of them.  Yet, that is.  But someday I'm hoping for a big box under the Christmas tree—containing Matthew Perry.

Copyright 2002 MusicCityDiva

**Chandler: **_The Way Memories Linger_

_Three years.  _At this crucial moment, that was the only thought running through Chandler's head.  He knew it was absurd.  He should be standing by now, hugging his best friend, the college roommate he hadn't seen since his days at NYU or even turning on the charm for the girl who was even more beautiful than the last time he'd seen her.  But he couldn't move.  Instead, he sat in the midst of a pile of clothes that carried the enticing scent of the woman next to him thinking that it had been _THREE YEARS _since he'd last seen either of them.

The sound of his name finally snapped him back to reality.  Chandler glanced at Monica to see if she was the one who had spoken, but it was Ross that was hovering over them, reaching out a hand to help Chandler up.  Still slightly dazed, Chandler took the offered hand and returned the hearty hug he was pulled into.

"Chandler!  My man!  You live here?  How are you, roomie?"  Ross exclaimed, giving Chandler a friendly punch in the arm.

Chandler winced, noting that a bruise was all ready forming where his elbow had hit the door frame as he—they—fell.

"I'm great, Ross.  Yeah, I live right here, actually," Chandler said, gesturing toward the still-open door of his apartment.  "What are you doing here?  Are you and…um…" Chandler struggled to remember the name of Ross' wife.  He had been in the wedding, for heaven's sake…what was her name?  "um…Karen…"

"Carol," Ross corrected.  "Her name is Carol."

"Carol," Chandler repeated.  "Are you and Carol moving in here?"

Ross shook his head.  "No, Carol and I live a few blocks away.  Actually, Monica is.…" he stopped abruptly, glancing around for his sister.

It was then that Chandler realized Monica was still sitting on the floor, looking slightly irritated that the two guys seemed to have forgotten her.  Chandler offered his hand to help her to her feet, and after a moment's hesitation, Monica took it, slipping her small, soft hand into his sturdy one.

The feeling of her hand surprised Chandler even more than he'd expected.  He hadn't thought about Monica in years, but with her here in front of him, his thoughts were consumed with nothing else.

The moment evaporated when Ross pointedly cleared his throat.  Chandler followed Ross' stare to where Monica's hand was still grasped firmly in his own, even though she was now back on her feet.  Not that Monica seemed to be pulling away very quickly.  Judging by the look on her face, she was experiencing the same feelings as Chandler.  Nevertheless, Chandler, feeling uncomfortable under Ross' scrutiny, dropped Monica's hand as if it had suddenly burst into flames.

Monica looked vaguely hurt, but carefully changed her expression to one of indifference.

"It's…um…nice to see you again, Chandler," she managed to say with only a slight quiver in her voice.  She searched for something, anything to say to fill the awkward silence.  "So…how's your toe?"

Chandler was taken aback for a minute.  "My toe?"  He searched his brain, trying to figure out what she meant.  Then it hit.  "Oh!  My toe!  Yeah…um, um…it's fine.  Well, the stub is fine.  The actual toe is probably still in your kitchen somewhere."  He grimaced, knowing that he'd definitely given way too much information.  'Stop talking.  Stop talking NOW,' he told himself.

As one would expect, Monica looked slightly disgusted.  "Actually, no, I'm pretty sure Mom cleaned that up awhile ago."  

"Right," Chandler said, unable for once in his life to think of a joke.  "Right," he repeated, and then cleared his throat self-consciously.

"Anyway, Monica is actually the one moving in here," Ross interjected.  Both Chandler and Monica flinched, having forgotten that Ross was still standing there.  Ross continued with his update, completely oblivious to the uncomfortable situation between his sister and former roommate.  "Our grandmother moved to Florida and gave Monica the apartment.  But the landlord doesn't know that, so if you run into him, don't mention it."

"And in the meantime, all letters addressed to Grandma Geller should be forwarded to a bingo hall in Miami, right?"  Chandler said dryly.  

Ross smiled.  "Well, listen, Chandler, I'd love to catch up, but I have a wife at home and you know what THAT means."  He gave Chandler an exaggerated wink.

Chandler smiled at this reminder that his old roommate was indeed, a first class nerd.  "I don't know, Ross, but winking like that isn't going to get you past first base in MY book."

Ross laughed and turned to his sister.  "Mon, you gonna be okay?  I think we got everything out of the U-haul."

"Yeah, Ross, I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

Chandler noticed that Monica clenched her jaw before answering firmly.  "I'm sure."

Ross looked uncertain as he hugged Monica briefly.  "Well, you have my number if you need anything."  Then he brightened considerably.  "Or Chandler lives right across the hall.  I'm sure he'd be glad to help you unpack.  Or show you around the city."  Ross glanced expectantly at Chandler.

Chandler chose to ignore the glare Monica sent her brother, as well as his own stomach jumping in anticipation of an excuse to spend time with Monica.  

"Sure," he managed to utter casually, seconds before Monica turned her glare on him.  He quickly added, "That is, if Monica wants me to."

Even Ross could see that Monica's smile was forced.  "I'm sure I'll be fine," she stated.  "Bye, Ross."

Ross looked almost sad as he said goodbye to Chandler, promising some "quality catch-up time" soon.  Both Monica and Chandler watched as Ross disappeared down the stairs before glancing at each other nervously.  Monica quickly averted her eyes as she began to pick up scattered clothes.  

Chandler reached for the part of the enormous stack in her arms.  "Here, let me help you with that."

Monica looked like she was about to refuse, but thought better of it as she remembered the earlier scenario.  "Okay," she acquiesced, handing him the greater portion of the pile.  She picked up the rogue key and successfully slid it into the keyhole.  Chandler followed Monica's lead into the apartment and placed the clothes where she directed.  Taking just a second to look around, he tried to ignore the irony of the fact that he was standing in Monica's bedroom.  Which was in Monica's apartment, which just happened to be directly across the hall from his own!  

He wandered back out to the main room where Monica was all ready arranging her kitchen.  He grinned as he watched her align boxes just-so on shelves, remembering her fixation with orderliness.  A memory hit unexpectedly, one he hadn't thought about in years.  One that had taken place in another kitchen about five years earlier. 

THANKSGIVING 1988

            _Chandler paused just outside the kitchen door to straighten his jacket and take a deep breath before attempting to saunter casually to where Monica was preparing Thanksgiving dinner.  He deepened his voice considerably, hoping that he sounded at least remotely like Don Johnson._

_"Monica, I was wondering if you could make me some of that righteous mac and cheese like last year."_

_He was pleased to note that Monica seemed flustered as she fumbled for a box of macaroni.  Must be his charm was finally paying off. _

_"Um, I'd love to!"  For a moment, she seemed anxious to win his approval.  But then things changed abruptly—and weirdly.  "Ooh, I love macaroni and cheese.  I love-I love the way this box feels against my cheek."_

PRESENT

"Chandler?"

Chandler started hastily as he realized Monica was calling his name.  He smiled at her puzzled gaze, knowing how embarrassed she would be if he reminded her of that incident.  Instead, he answered off-handedly.  "Yeah.  Sorry.  Just thinking."

He could see her trying to decide whether or not she wanted to ask what his thoughts were.  She decided against it, apparently, settling on a simple "oh."

"So is there anything else I can do?"  Chandler asked, sincerely wanting to help.  To his extreme disappointment, however, Monica shook her head.  

"No, I'm fine.  I have everything under control."

Chandler opened his mouth to protest, but quickly shut it as he remembered her response to Ross.  He reluctantly headed toward the door, walking backwards.

"Okay.  Well, I'm right across the hall if you need anything.  Or, uh, even if you don't."

Monica just stared at him as Chandler rushed to clarify himself.  

"What I mean is, if you just want to talk.  Or hang out.  Or need directions or something.  Or whatever," he finished lamely, wishing he had just shut up when he'd had the chance.  

"Thanks," Monica replied.  "I think I'll be okay, though.  But thanks." 

Chandler recognized his cue and opened the door to let himself out.  

"Oh, Chandler?"  

            Chandler quickly turned around to face her.  "Yeah?"

Monica had a half-smile on her face.  "Maybe you could come over for dinner sometime.  I'll make macaroni and cheese."  

TO BE CONTINUED…


	3. Ross: Perfection Is As Perfection Does

Author's Note:  I didn't update this as soon as I had predicted, but this was a really hard chapter to write for some reason.  I'm hope you guys like it, and if you do, PLEASE review.  PLEASE?  

Disclaimer: Only Roger is mine.  But honestly, Ross and Carol probably wouldn't be the first characters I'd claim.  

Copyright 2002 MusicCityDiva

**Ross: **_Perfection Is As Perfection Does_

****

            Ross couldn't help but smile as he thumbed through the stack of mail he had pulled from the box in his apartment building's lobby.  Even after being married for almost three years, the sight of his name linked with his wife's still made him giddy.  

He supposed it was a bit old-fashioned, really.  But this was all he had ever really wanted.  A secure job that he actually enjoyed, a nice apartment perfect for a young couple, and a wife eager to start a family.  He liked the fact that his life was predictable and his future looked bright.  His nest egg was growing steadily and within a few years, he and Carol should be able to afford a down payment on a nice house just outside the city.

As far as Ross was concerned, all was right in his world.  Well, except for some minor concern about his sister, but he was sure Monica was just stressed about moving.  He couldn't figure out any other reason she wouldn't want him around.  Not that it mattered too much.  Between his work and his wife, Ross was sure he wouldn't be seeing a lot of his sister anyway.  He was quite content to submerse himself in his promising career and family.

"Mr. Geller?"

Ross jumped at the sound of a voice directly behind him.  The stack of mail fell from his hands and scattered over the tiled lobby floor.

"Oh!  I'm so sorry, Mr. Geller!  Let me help you," said the voice.

All ready kneeling to pick up the strewn envelopes, Ross turned his head to glance at the owner of the voice.

"That's okay, Roger," he told the elderly security guard.  "I've got it.  Did you need something?"  Ross asked, dusting off his trench coat as he stood.

Roger shook his head.  "No, sir.  You were just staring into space for so long.  I was wondering if something was wrong."

Ross smiled.  "No, everything's fine.  I was just thinking.  Thanks, though."

Roger returned the smile.  "Have a good evening, sir."

Ross easily climbed the four flights of stairs that usually left him winded and walked all the way down the hall to number 514, preparing his "Hi honey, I'm home" entrance in his head.  He shifted his briefcase from one hand to the other, wishing that he'd stopped to get flowers on the way home.  Then he remembered Carol's request that he wait at least a week to bring another bouquet home, seeing as she had filled all the vases and tall glasses and even some old coffee cans.  

Ross slid his key in the door and opened the door slowly, glancing around expectantly.  Not that he was sure of what he was expecting.  He constantly had to remind himself that he didn't live in an episode of "I Love Lucy."  First of all, he definitely wasn't Cuban like Ricky Ricardo, and he had yet to see Carol ever doing housework wearing a dress.  Actually, he had yet to see Carol doing housework, since they had decided even before they had moved in that they would hire a housekeeper.  But Carol still usually beat him home, and most of the time she had managed to get dinner started, so Ross was able to enjoy the illusion of the perfect family living in the 1950s.

'Well, almost perfect,' Ross thought as he entered the apartment.  He and Carol had been trying to get pregnant for almost six months now, and it still hadn't happened.  During the first month, Ross had substituted home pregnancy tests for flowers, bringing one home nearly every night.  Soon, though, he realized Carol's giddiness had turned into amusement, then spiraled downward into depression and soon began to border on resentment.  At that point, Ross had decided he had been slightly pushy and stopped immediately, before Carol decided that she didn't want a baby after all.  

But they were still trying.  The extra bedroom had been coated in a fresh layer of gleaming yellow paint, and Ross had all ready chosen the perfect bassinet during one of his several trips to BabyWorld "just to look."  

Still caught up in his baby fantasy, Ross strolled through the apartment, setting his briefcase on the counter separating the kitchen from the living room and tossed his coat in the general direction of the couch.  Well, where the couch was supposed to be, anyway.

Too late, Ross noticed the couch had been moved against the wall and in its place was a meticulously set table for two.  Carol had used the china and silver they had received as wedding gifts, and one of the many bouquets of flowers around the apartment served nicely as a centerpiece.  His wife had even gone so far as to light two taper candles.

_CANDLES?_

Reacting quickly, Ross dove toward the table in a valiant attempt to snatch his coat before it landed on the candles and sent the whole apartment building into a blazing inferno.  He snagged one corner and pulled the coat toward him, dragging a full place setting with it.  Now Ross had to decide whether to catch the fragile dishes tumbling toward the floor or to steady the dangerously-swaying candle.  He opted for the candle, blowing it out as he straightened it and wincing as the dishes shattered upon impact.  

The commotion brought Carol running into the room.  

"What happened, what happened?"  she asked, her eyes widening in dismay as she took in the scene.  "Ross!" she exclaimed.

A guilty Ross stood in the middle of the disaster, still holding the coat that had caused the chaos.  "Um…I had a problem."

Carol could only stare in disbelief.  Then her eyes filled with tears, and Ross stepped over the broken glass to hug her reassuringly.  

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he apologized, trying to think of anything to say to make his wife feel better.  "I was just thinking.  I mean, I wasn't thinking.  Well, I wasn't paying attention.  And I threw my coat on the couch.  And the couch…well, it wasn't…and I didn't…and then I saw the candles, and it was either the fire or the plates and so…well, we lost the china."

By this time, Carol was simply looking at her husband, waiting for him to stop babbling nonsensically.  Ross finally took a breath and glanced down at his wife to gage her reaction.  Surprise—and a vast sense of relief—overtook him as he noted the laughter hinted in Carol's eyes.  He offered her a tentative smile, causing Carol to let out a burst of laughter.  She pulled away from Ross' embrace, and glanced at the mess again, which only caused her to laugh harder.

Ross was unsure what to do.  Had his wife completely gone over the edge?

Carol gestured toward the table.  "I searched all over the city today to find the perfect shade of blue candles to match the tablecloth.  I wish I'd known that you were only going to use them to attempt to burn down the apartment!  To think I could have saved myself four hours and three dollars!"  she accused Ross playfully.

Simply relieved that Carol didn't seem upset, Ross decided his best tactic was to laugh along with her, and he knelt to help her clean up the broken dishes.

He took a load of glass to the kitchen and deposited the shards into the garbage can.  He walked back out to the living room and watched as Carol vacuumed to rid the carpet of any invisible pieces.  As she returned the vacuum to the closet, Ross noted her clothes for the first time.  He whistled in approval.

            "Wow," he said as she walked towards him.  "Who's the special guy?"

            "Well, he just happens to be my husband," she replied, reaching up to drape her arms around his neck.  "He's a very handsome guy and incredibly sweet, but slightly clumsy."

            Ross smiled, and leaned in for a kiss.  "I think I might know him," he commented before gently kissing her lips.  "What's the occasion?"

            At that question, Carol's grin grew huge.  "Wellll….," she said, dragging out the word tauntingly.  "I was going to tell you over a nice romantic dinner, but since it hasn't exactly gone the way I'd planned…"

            Ross felt his heart skip a beat.  "Yes?" 

            "I guess I might as well go ahead and tell you now," Carol told him, still smiling.  "But I want to whisper it."

            Ross tilted his head toward his wife's mouth, his mouth suddenly dry.  He could barely make out the words that Carol whispered over the pounding in his ears, but froze in excited incredulity as the meaning registered.  

            "I'm pregnant."

TO BE CONTINUED…

Author's Note:  I know, I know, I know!  It's all off the time sequence.  Carol can't be pregnant with Ben yet!  You're absolutely right.  And you're just gonna have to trust me and keep reading to see where I'm going with this!  Oh, and please review before you leave!  I'll be your best friend!  


	4. Joey: Welcome to the Real World

Disclaimer: None of the Friends characters are in my possession.  However, I do possess quite a healthy obsession with all things relating to them.  Doesn't that count for anything?

Copyright 2002 MusicCityDiva

**Joey: **_Welcome to the Real World_

            Joey Tribbiani entered the house quietly, catching the heavy wooden door before it swung shut.  He held it open with his right hand, contemplating whether to ease it shut silently or to go ahead and let it slam.  

This wasn't the first time he had been in this situation.  The problem was, even though he had approached it countless ways, he still wasn't sure which was the best solution.  On one hand, the slamming of the door helped vent his frustration in some small way.  There was a sense of satisfaction that came from seeing if this would be the time that the force knocked the door off its hinges.  On the other hand, if he shut the door quietly, he was usually able to slip through the hallway and upstairs to his room without alerting any of his family members to his arrival.  Then he could subsequently avoid their dozens of probing, however well-meaning, questions.  

            He had pretty much decided on the silent entrance when the choice was taken out of his hands—literally.  Before he knew what was happening, he was suddenly knocked backwards by a blur of twelve-year-old energy, causing the door to slam shut as he stumbled back outside.  Joey struggled to regain his balance as his youngest sister, Dina, flew past him, laughing as she ran.

            "You're it, Joey!" she screeched and turned back to look at him, waiting to see if he would take her up on her challenge.

            Amusement took the place of any traces of annoyance, and Joey found himself racing across the yard after his sister.  Dina shrieked in delight and started to run, but Joey's long strides caught up to her easily.  He grabbed her around the waist and effortlessly swung her off the ground, tickling her playfully as he headed back toward the house.  

            "I'm it, huh?" Joey asked with laughter in his voice, even as she pleaded with him through giggles to please stop.  Once inside the house, Joey relented, letting her go.  Dina hugged him around the waist quickly before scampering off to annoy someone else.  Still grinning, Joey wandered into the kitchen, hoping that something was cooking.  He was in luck.  He found his mother transferring fresh cookies from a cookie sheet to a cooling rack.

            "Hi, Ma," Joey said, reaching across the counter to snatch a cookie for himself.  

            Her response was to lightly slap him as he shoved the entire cookie in his mouth.  "Those are for the Russos, that nice couple from church," she told him with mock indignance.  "They just had another baby, you know."

            "Another one?" Joey mumbled around a mouthful of cookie.  "Don't they have, like, twelve kids?"

            Gloria Tribbiani turned back to her cookies.  "Eleven," she corrected.  "It's not so shocking.  They _are _Italian."

            Joey nodded.  "So are we, Ma.  Planning on having a few more?  Giving me a brother, maybe?"  

            "Not likely," Gloria retorted teasingly.  "Another one of you?  Isn't my hair gray enough?" 

            Joey smiled back at her.

            "Besides," his mother continued.  "As much of a tomboy as Dina is, I don't think we need another boy."  

            "You got that right," Joey agreed.  "I think we should sign her up with the NFL or something.  Did you hear her tackle me when I came in?"

            Gloria let out a burst of laughter.  "Is that what that was?"  

Joey recounted the scene for his mother and the two laughed companionably for a few moments.  Suddenly, Gloria gasped and looked at her son questioningly.  

"Joey, I almost forgot!  Did you get the part?"  

Joey grimaced, wishing his mother had forgotten completely.  The reasons he had wanted to sneak in without notice all came crashing back to him.  Avoiding his mother's eyes, Joey shook his head slightly.  

Gloria moved around the counter to hug her son.  "Oh, Cookie."  

Joey made a face at the childhood nickname, one that both he and another sister shared. 

"I'm sorry, honey," his mother sympathized before engulfing him in a reassuring embrace.

 Torn between feeling too old for maternal coddling and wanting to succumb to her comforting, Joey hesitated momentarily before hugging her back.  He allowed himself to feel the self-pity he had been fighting back for the past few hours before shrugging it off like he always did.

"It's okay, Ma," he answered lightly, hoping his tone sounded convincing.  "There's always next time, right?"

Still holding her son by the shoulders, Gloria looked into his eyes, trying to decide whether or not he was really okay.  Apparently confident in Tribbiani resilience, she gave Joey one last hug before releasing him completely and returning to her cookies.

"Well, now maybe you'll have time to help your father out with the business this summer," Gloria commented off-handedly.

Joey was shaking his head before his mother even finished the sentence.  "No, no, no, no, no.  Ma, we've talked about this."  

"But I just thought…"

"I'm an actor, Ma.  I don't want to get stuck fitting pipes for the rest of my life."  

"Just for a little while, Joe.  It would really make your father happy."

Joey began moving toward the door.  "I know.  If I stopped 'fooling around' and 'got a real job,' it would make him really happy.  But I don't want to make him happy, Ma.  I want to make _me _happy.  'Cause it's _my _life!"  

"Joey…"

Joey had almost completely left the kitchen before he stopped and looked at his mother directly.  "I'm going to get a job.  An _acting_ job.  I'll show you guys that I can be successful without having to accept a charity job from Dad."

And then he stomped out of the room, leaving Gloria staring sadly after him.

^^^

            Dinner in the Tribbiani household was nothing short of an event.  Even meals that weren't associated with holidays were elaborate and plentiful, since at least one of the Tribbiani children had usually invited a friend or two to the table.  Tonight, eighteen-year-old Mary Theresa sat giggling in the midst of her two best friends, reminding Joey of a group of cackling hens.  

            _'But the blond is kinda cute,' _Joey thought, sinking into his chair at the far end of the huge table.  He briefly contemplated offering a 'how you doin'' across the table to the cute girl when Dina crawled into the chair next to him, tugging at his sleeve before she had even sat down.

            "Joey," she whispered insistently.  

            Joey looked at her questioningly, wishing for once that he had been born into a smaller family.  

            Dina's preteen face was serious as she waited for her brother's full attention.  When she was sure no one else was listening, she spoke so only Joey could hear.

            "There's this dance at my school next Friday," she told him.

            Joey nodded, wondering what this had to do with him.

            Dina glanced at him nervously before the next words tumbled out of her mouth.  Joey had to listen carefully since she spoke quickly and quietly.

            "Will you take me shopping this weekend so I can get a dress?"

            Joey looked at her in disbelief.  "A dress?  Me?  Why me?  Why don't you ask Mary Theresa or Gina?  Dina, you don't even like dresses."

            Dina's hopeful expression turned into one of dejection.  "I want _you_," she insisted.  "Mary Theresa and Gina will just laugh.  Besides, you know what boys like." 

            So that was it.  "Oh," Joey answered.  "You're going with a boy?  What boy?"

            Dina blushed.  "Joooo-eeeyyyy.  It's just a boy.  He's from school.  You don't know him."

            Joey continued with the big-brother approach, half-joking and half-serious.  "Well, I better get to know him."

            Now, Dina was the one looking annoyed.  "You gonna take me or not?"

            Joey struggled not to laugh.  "Sure, why not?"  

            Dina beamed at him just as their mother entered the room, carrying a huge ravioli casserole.  She set it down carefully in the center and had just begun dishing up platefuls when Joey Tribbiani, Sr. arrived.  

            "Hello, everyone," he announced, before sitting at the head of the table and wrapping a napkin around his neck.  "Looks good, honey," he commented as Gloria handed her husband a loaded plate.

            Joey greeted his father with everyone else and then sat apprehensively for a moment or two, waiting for his mother to bring up the latest failed audition.  Fortunately, she was currently occupied with the food and didn't seem inclined to discussing her son's situation right away.  Relieved, Joey turned to his own meal, taking a huge bite so he'd have an excuse not to participate in the all-ready rowdy conversation.              

            As he reached across the table for the basket of rolls, Joey Jr. caught the gaze of Joey Sr.   He quickly averted his eyes, but it was too late.

            "How'd the play-thing go, son?"

            Everyone at the table went silent, anticipating Joey's answer.

Joey sighed.  "It's not a play-thing, Dad.  It was an audition.  And it was okay, I guess."  

            "Did you get it?" his father asked bluntly.

            Joey shook his head.  "No," he answered simply.  

            The look on his father's face was almost smug.  "I knew this whole acting thing was just nonsense.  It's about time for you to settle into a real job, son."

            Joey remained quiet, in order not to say something he'd later regret.  

            His father rambled on.  "In fact, I have a big meeting with some potential clients on Friday.  Real big important corporation.  What d'ya say?  You can sit in on the meeting, help persuade them to sign, and really be on your way to making some big bucks."

            By this time, both Tribbiani parents were looking at their son hopefully, expecting him to finally come to his senses and give up his silly dream.  

            Joey scrambled to think of an excuse that his parents would believe.  The words jumped out of his mouth before he had to chance to think about them.  "I can't."

            Joey Sr looked taken aback.  "Why not now, Joe?  What is it this time?"

            Joey glared back at his father.  "I have an audition all ready, Dad.  It's a big one."

            "For what?"  Mary Theresa asked, hoping that her brother's audition was for some big-budget film or something equally impressive.  She bragged about her brother's career all the time to her friends.  It would be nice if some of the fibs she told actually came true while she had the two biggest gossips in school present.

            Joey had to think quickly, which for him was no small feat.  "It's…it's…it's, um, a surprise," he finally stated, ignoring the skeptical look on his father's face.  "I don't want to jinx it.  But this is my big break, I can just feel it."

            His mother was the first to say something positive.  "Good, Cookie.  I'm sure it will be."      

            Fortunately for Joey, Gina chose that moment to announce she was getting a tattoo.   The uproar that resulted was enough of a diversion for Joey to finish his meal quickly and retreat to the kitchen.  He thoughtfully rinsed off his dinner dishes as he tried to think of any auditions occurring next Friday.  All he knew was he had to think of _something_.  Because he was starting to run out of excuses.  

^^^

            A week later, Joey stood nervously in a waiting room.  His name was next on the list, and Joey felt unusually confident about this part.  Granted, he wasn't exactly sure what he was auditioning for, except that it was indeed some sort of movie.  And that was all that Joey needed to know.  A friend of Joey's had clued him into this particular audition, telling Joey that he was a shoo-in.  He wouldn't tell Joey precisely what the part was, only saying that it was going to "open new doors" for Joey.  That friend also knew the director of the film personally, and Joey was counting on that as his leverage for this part.

            "Joey Trib…Tribbi…" A pretty redhead entered the room with a clipboard and struggled to pronounce the ethnic surname.

            "Tribbiani," Joey told her, giving her the once-over.  "So, how you doin'?"

            The woman looked at him with indifference.  "Uh huh.  Well, Mr. Tribbiani, the casting directors will see you now.  Right this way."  She gestured toward the hallway she had come from and began to lead the way.

            Joey followed her, bewildered by her apparent lack of interest.  _'Hmm,_' he thought, _'must be losing my touch.'_

They entered a room completely devoid of color and decoration, except for the casting crew sitting behind a long table near one wall.  The two men and one woman stared appraisingly at Joey's body, definitely seeming more interested in the area below his neck than the area above it.  Joey took his place in front of them, feeling almost uncomfortable under their direct scrutiny.  

            _'So what?  People stare at me all the time.  I'm just naturally good looking.  Yeah, that's it.  Be cool, be cool.'_

            By this time, the directors were looking at him expectantly.  Joey shifted his weight, wondering if he was supposed to launch into an extemporaneous recitation or what.  He opted to stand quietly, returning their stares.

            "Well?" the woman finally asked pointedly.

            Joey cleared his throat.  "Well?  Um, hi, I'm Joey Tribbiani and I have been acting since…"

            One of the men interrupted.  "No, sir.  We aren't necessarily interested in your oratory talents.  First, we would like to appraise the…uh…equipment."

            Joey's bewilderment was definitely increasing.  "Equipment?  Is this, like, a sports movie?  'Cause I didn't bring any baseball bats or hockey pucks or anything."

            The woman shook her head.  "Sir, we would simply like you to get rid of your clothes, please."

            _What?  _Joey stared at them in shock.  "Excuse me?"

            The casting crew was beginning to look mildly annoyed.  "Mr. Tribbiani, were you not informed of the stipulations of this film?"

            Joey shook his head.  "Not exactly." 

            Oh, they definitely were annoyed now.  The woman was the first to open her mouth and explain.  "This is an—how shall we put this delicately—exotic film, sir.  We are a company that specializes in adult entertainment."  

            _'No, no, no.  This was supposed to be my big chance.  What am I supposed to do now?'  _Joey thought frantically.  

            One of the men interrupted his thoughts.  "Do you still want to try out or not?  We don't have all day, I'm afraid."

            Joey considered the situation briefly.  He honestly wasn't sure how he felt about appearing in a porno.  All he knew at this precise moment was that he needed a job—any job, in fact, as a long as it didn't involve pipe-fitting.  Without much conscious thought, Joey found himself nodding.  

            "Sure, why not?"  

TO BE CONTINUED…


	5. Phoebe: Peace and Harmony

Author's Note:  This chapter took forever and a day to write.  Sorry, guys!  I had a difficult time beginning, but once I got a good start, the story took off on a direction of it's own and ended up being the longest chapter yet!  Hope you enjoy, and if you do, please make my day and review!

Disclaimer:  Okay, okay, I admit it.  I don't own any of the Friends characters.  Or Central Park.  And definitely not the NYPD.  So don't go getting all floopy on me.  J

Copyright 2002 MusicCityDiva

**Phoebe: **_Peace and Harmony_

            "Miss?  Um, excuse me, miss?"

            The woman on the bench muttered incoherently and opened one eye to locate the source of the voice interrupting her sleep.  It had taken her literally hours to even get somewhat comfortable on this bench in the depths of Central Park, and judging by the tone of the voice above her, she wouldn't be getting more rest any time soon.  Maybe if she just ignored the voice, it would simply go away.  All she had to do was drift slowly back into dreamland…

            That's when the shaking started.  

            "Excuse me, miss.  I'm sorry, but you can't sleep here," the police officer insisted while gently jostling the woman's shoulder.

            This time, Phoebe Buffay opened both her eyes and immediately squinted against the glare of the officer's badge reflecting the early morning sun.  She pulled her aching body to a sitting position and struggled to think clearly as the young police officer observed her anxiously.

            Even in her semi-lethargic state, Phoebe noted his nervous expression with a vague sense of amusement.  

            "I'm not going to mug you or anything," she told him, punctuating her sentence with a yawn.  "I promise."

            The officer grinned, despite his attempt to maintain his intimidating demeanor. 

            "Sorry," he apologized.  "I don't mean to stare.  It's just that you're so young—and so pretty—" he added, blushing, "to be…to be…um…"

            "Homeless?"  Phoebe finished nonchalantly as she gathered her meager belongings and stood.  "Well…thanks.  I guess."  She tossed her tangled blonde hair over one shoulder and began to walk away.

            The officer hurried after her.  "Wait!"  

Phoebe kept walking, but still the man pursued her.  "Hey, hold on a sec!"

With an impatient roll of her eyes, Phoebe stopped abruptly and glanced back with an impassive stare.  He caught up easily and began to gesture empathetically as he spoke with hurried words.

"Sorry—again.  I didn't mean to be rude or anything.  I'm kind of new—to the whole police thing, that is.  This is only my fourth official day of work," he confided somewhat sheepishly.  "I just thought that all…um…homeless people were old and…and dirty and stuff."

Phoebe watched as he fumbled for words, waiting for him to simply stop babbling.  Man, he was definitely young.  When he finally paused uncomfortably, Phoebe shrugged.  "Well, now you know."

The officer opened his mouth to continue his defensive speech, but Phoebe cut in before he could speak.  "Listen, I know that it's your duty to keep the city streets like, safe and, an…and clean and everything, and you're doing a good job, but if you're gonna be wearing _that_," she said, gently tapping his shiny badge with one finger, "then you should remember that the NYPD is an establishment that looks out for the good of _all _people.  Including homeless people," she added empathetically.  "Because we are people, you know.  Even the people that are _old _and _dirty _and _stuff_.  All of those people still have hearts and brains and feelings.  So…have a nice day."

And with that, Phoebe strolled away, leaving a slightly bewildered member of New York's finest standing alone in the middle of Central Park.  

***

It had only been three days, but it felt like months.  Phoebe could hardly believe she was once again completely alone in the world.  Well, not completely alone, if you counted Ursula, but Phoebe didn't.  That was one person that Phoebe hardly considered human, much less a family member.  

Phoebe could only vaguely remember the days that she and Ursula had been real sisters.  No, more than sisters.  There had been a time when she and Ursula had actually been _twins_.  They had finished each other's sentences, talked in a secret language, and refused to sleep in separate rooms.  But all that changed with, as Phoebe liked to call it, "The Great Thermos Incident" shortly after the girls' eighth birthday.  The relationship quickly went downhill from there.  And after their mother died, the girls eagerly went their separate ways.  Since then, aside from a few brief encounters, Ursula had kept her communication to the absolute minimum, and Phoebe was more than happy to comply.

Now though, Phoebe caught herself wishing that she and her sister had remained on good terms.  Or at least on speaking terms.  Because at a time like this, it would sure be nice to have somewhere to turn for someplace to sleep or for a little food money or even for a listening ear.

Phoebe sighed as her thoughts returned to the friend she had just lost.  She hadn't known him for long, but she would always a special place in her heart for the friendly man that had given her a place to live after her stepfather returned to prison.  In fact, Phoebe realized that she had probably been his only friend, considering his ultimate decision to commit suicide.  Shaking her head, Phoebe once again cursed the injustice of the world and committed silently to do something about it one day.

"Enough with the depressing thoughts, Phoebe!" she said out loud, causing a few passersby to edge carefully away from the woman talking to apparently no one.  Phoebe ignored them and sauntered confidently through Central Park, debating on what to do with the day stretched out ahead.

***

The clock on the dingy white wall read seven minutes to eleven when Phoebe entered the soup kitchen for lunch.  She could see the volunteers bustling busy behind the long counter as they prepared the day's spread.  Among the first patrons there, Phoebe took a seat in a metal folding chair near the other early arrivals and began to observe the individuals around her.  One woman caught her attention almost immediately.  It wasn't necessarily the woman herself that sparked Phoebe's interest.  In fact, the woman was pretty ordinary looking—probably in her late forties with stringy brown hair streaked with strands of gray.  But nestled among the woman's sparse belongings was a soft black guitar case that's shape indicated it did indeed contain a guitar.  Phoebe stared wistfully at the instrument, lost in thought.

Since her father had abandoned her family before Phoebe was old enough to remember, Phoebe had no personal recollection of the man.  She was forced to be content to get to know him though stories told by her mother.  Several times, Phoebe's mother had mentioned Frank Buffay's love of guitar playing and his dream of one day playing for a group of adoring fans.

_"Not that anyone would ever listen long enough to become a fan at all," Lily Buffay laughingly told her enthralled daughter.  "He was pretty horrible.  Always making up silly songs and playing those same three chords over and over and over again."_

Then she would smile and tell how Frank's songs were the only way to get baby Phoebe to sleep during her frequent bouts with colic.

_"You would just calm right down and smile at him like you were the only two people in the world.  You were definitely his biggest fan.  Actually, you were probably his only fan."_

Realizing that the woman with the guitar was attempting to secure her attention, Phoebe shook herself out of the depths of nostalgia and offered a friendly smile.  The woman shyly smiled back, and then spoke, seeming to gather her courage with each word.

"Do you like guitars?" she asked so quietly that Phoebe had to lean forward to hear.

Phoebe blushed, realizing that she had been caught staring.  

"Ye…ye…yes," she stammered.  "I mean, I've never actually played or, or even held one, but I like them.  A…a…a lot."

The woman seemed to carefully contemplate her next words before saying them.

"Would you like to hold mine?"

Phoebe could hardly believe her good fortune.  Her fingers began to tingle with anticipation as Nice Guitar Lady unzipped the case and carefully eased the instrument from its protective shell.

Phoebe had expected to see a beat-up, scratched guitar almost beyond recognition of anything that might remotely be musical.  What actually emerged was more than Phoebe could have hoped.  Although not exactly new, the guitar was obviously well taken care of, with a gleaming light wood surface and taut strings.

Nice Guitar Lady hesitated for a moment, cradling the instrument in her arms as one would a small child.  Phoebe held her breath, fearing that Nice Guitar Lady had suddenly changed her mind and at the same time, understanding why she would.  Having resigned herself to simply gazing at the instrument, Phoebe was genuinely surprised when it was passed into her waiting grasp.  Only vaguely aware of the owner's uncertain scrutiny, Phoebe reverently ran her fingertips over the smooth surface, feeling as if she had finally found the appendage that had been missing from her body.  Her hands seemed to instinctively know how to position themselves, with her left hand lightly pressing the frets and her right tentatively hovering over the strings.  Taking a deep breath, Phoebe simultaneously strummed the strings from top to bottom with her thumb, taking care to note the tone from each string.  The sounds she produced weren't exactly melodious, but an ecstatic grin spread across Phoebe's face as she glanced at the woman observing her.

Nodding encouragingly, Nice Guitar Lady spoke.  "My name is Betty."

Phoebe had completely forgotten the fact that they had not yet been properly introduced.  The fact that Nice Guitar Lady had an actual name was slightly disconcerting to Phoebe.

"I'm Phoebe," she returned, unable to tear her focus away from the treasure she held in her arms.  Silence prevailed for a few seconds as Phoebe debated how much to pry into Nice Guitar Lady, er, Betty's personal life and Betty considered how much of her story she wanted to share.

"The guitar belonged to my son," Betty finally offered, her eyes all ready beginning to fill with tears.  She blinked rebelliously against them, halting the imminent flood before it could begin.

Unsure of how to respond, Phoebe simply nodded and waited for Betty to continue.

"Brett had taught himself to play when he was only ten, and my then-husband and I just knew he was some kind of prodigy.  He mostly played for fun—he didn't really like to perform—and he would just sit up in his room with the door closed.  The first few times I heard music coming from his room I thought it was just some CD.  I even told knocked on his door a few times to ask him to turn it down.  I'll never forget the time Brett opened the door to answer me.  He was holding his guitar in one hand and had a pick between his teeth.  That was when I realized how good he actually was.  I used to wonder why he closed himself off from the rest of the world when he played.  Now I know it was his way to escape since that's about the time the fighting got bad between my husband and me.  

"My husband and I finally divorced the year Brett entered the eleventh grade.  Brett and I stayed in the house, but my husband got the car he and I had shared.  That left me to share the clunker of a Jeep that Brett had bought that summer.  Soon after the divorce, Brett ended up meeting a producer for a tiny record company that wanted Brett to do some studio guitar work for a new singer.  That's what made sharing the car so difficult-I was still working as a secretary to make ends meet and Brett constantly needed to be on the other side of town at the studio.  

"One night, I had been held up at work with some urgent paperwork and I ended up getting home with the Jeep almost two hours late.  Just as I pulled into the driveway, I remembered that Brett had been due at the studio over an hour ago to meet with some of the big shots at the record company.  My day had all ready been stressful, so when I walked inside and found Brett pacing the hallway, I was unable to bring myself to be sympathetic.  He demanded to know where I'd been, I told him that I was working to put food on the table, and he reminded me once again how big this opportunity was for his music career.  Out of sheer frustration, I said that any job he would ever get in music would be unstable and send his life right down the drain.  Then he grabbed the keys dangling from my hand and stormed out the house with his guitar, muttering that someday he'd be a huge star and prove me wrong.

"That's the last time I saw him alive.  The police officer said that he had hit the tree head-on going approximately 70 miles per hour down a dark, deserted back road.  They told me he was killed instantly upon impact, and then they handed me the guitar, which had survived simply because it had been tossed in the back of the Jeep.  I remember clinging to that silly guitar as I collapsed on the floor of the foyer, thinking that it was _my fault _that he was dead.  Brett was normally such a careful driver.  The only reason he would have been driving so fast would be because he was angry because of our argument and that horrible thing I said to him that made him leave.

"My husband was furious, assuming that our son's death was my fault.  Which it was, but I would never admit that to him.  I never told anyone about the fight, I just refused to discuss that night with anyone, and gradually I just stopped seeking human contact all together.  I stayed in bed all day—stopped going to work, refused to take phone calls or answer the door.  When I finally decided to face reality eight months after the accident, I discovered that I had been fired from my job and that I had no money to pay my bills.  My husband refused to help, of course, and eventually, the bank foreclosed on my house, forcing me to move out.

"I had nowhere to go, no real friends to turn to.  My life had been work—and Brett.  I pawned almost everything I owned to get money, and spent a few weeks in a cheap hotel room.  Funds finally ran out completely, and I've been sleeping on benches and eating in soup kitchens for the past month or so.

"And I've been carrying that guitar around since the policeman handed it to me the night Brett died."  

By the time Betty finished her tragic story, both she and her captive listener were in tears.  Phoebe wiped her eyes with one relatively clean sleeve, taking care that no rogue tears dripped onto the precious guitar she still grasped.  She searched her mind for something appropriate to say, but nothing seemed right.  Instead, she moved from the chair she occupied and offered the only remedy she knew—a warm embrace, with the guitar suspended between them.  After an initial moment of shock, Betty gripped the younger woman back, realizing that this was the first hug she had participated in since Brett's funeral.  

The two separated after a minute or two, returning to their original seats.  Phoebe was the first to speak.

"I feel like I've known you for years," she confessed.  "Can you believe it's only been about forty-five minutes?"

 "I feel the same way," Betty agreed.  She paused for a moment, and then said the last words Phoebe would have ever expected.  "Would you like to have the guitar?"

Phoebe sat in stunned silence, instinctively tightening her grip on the instrument she still held.  She blinked twice, trying to formulate a comprehensible sentence.

"You mean like to keep?" she asked incredulously.

Betty couldn't help but laugh.  "Yes, dear.  I've been carrying that guitar around for years, hoping that it would somehow link me to Brett.  But I've realized that only my memories of him can do that.  I know that Brett would want someone who really loved the guitar to have it."

"And you…you want _me_…you think that I…you want to give it to _me_?"  Phoebe finally managed to say.

Betty nodded confidently, with tears brimming in her eyes.  "I couldn't think of anyone who could cherish it more."

"Oh, I would, I would!"  Phoebe exclaimed.  "Thank you, Betty."  She couldn't resist giving her another hug.  "I promise I'll never let it out of my sight."

"I don't doubt that for a second," Betty replied, knowing that she had made the right decision.

Phoebe sat back down and began strumming with renewed energy, unable to keep a smile off her face.  She glanced up at Betty, who was once again watching her.  

"You really are the _Nicest _Guitar Lady!" 

***

It was now or never.  She would definitely prefer never, but her conscience was admonishing otherwise.  Ever since meeting Betty and hearing her story, Phoebe couldn't stop thinking about the discord between herself and her twin.  She had suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to reconcile, before something happened to cause a lifetime of regret.  So before she knew what she was doing, Phoebe had found herself on a mission to locate Ursula.

Phoebe took a deep breath as she entered the nondescript restaurant in the Village.  The sign above the door read 'Riff's,' and Phoebe was almost positive that this was the job that Ursula had mentioned last time they had talked.  Of course, that had been over a year ago, and there was no way of knowing whether or not she still worked here.  

"Only one way to find out," Phoebe mumbled as she glanced around the establishment for her sister.  She moved out to the middle of the restaurant, hardly paying attention to where she was walking, which is probably why the waiter slammed into her.  

"Ursula!  Why are you just standing there?" the indignant server asked, glaring at Phoebe as he regained his balance.

"Oh!  Um…hi," Phoebe began.  "Yeah, um, I'm not Ursula."

The waiter's exasperated expression didn't change.  "Yeah, whatever.  Well, Queen Zorba or whoever you are today, we need you to work, not just stare at the customers."

"No, I'm Phoebe."

"Okay, Queen _Phoebe_, then.  We just…"

Phoebe interrupted.  "Wait…yeah, no…um, hello."  She raised her voice to be heard over Pushy Waiter Guy.  He finally stopped talking and stared at her.  "Yeah, hi.  As I was saying, I'm Phoebe.  Ursula's _twin_."

Aggravation was the first emotion to cross Pushy Waiter Guy's face, followed closely by disbelief.  Phoebe smugly grinned as he finally managed to look embarrassed. 

"Oh!  Sorry!  Okay, well…sorry," he finished lamely.  

Phoebe shrugged her shoulders.  "So my sister _does _work here, apparently.  Tell me, is she difficult to work with?" she asked somewhat self-righteously.  

Pushy Waiter Guy nodded empathetically.  "Yeah.  A lot.  I mean, well, you could say that."

Phoebe grinned, satisfied that she was not the only person alive that found Ursula unbearable.  Unfortunately, that fact did not change what she had come here to do.  She posed one more question.  "Do you happen to know where she lives?"

He paused in thought for a moment or two before answering.  "I overheard her mention it once or twice.  It's not too far from here.  I think it's that building over that cool bar.  Um, I think it's called…um…Central something or other.  Anyway, it's right down the street here in the Village."

Phoebe nodded in appreciation.  "Thanks a lot.  You've been a big help," she told him, turning towards the door.  Just as she reached for the handle, one more thought crossed her mind.  

"Hey!" she called to Pushy Waiter Guy.  "Has she ever said what number apartment she lives in?"

"Number 20!" he called back.  "Maybe 19!"

Phoebe yelled her thanks one last time and stepped outside into the late afternoon sunshine.  For her, the day was just beginning.  

TO BE CONTINUED…


	6. Rachel: First Impressions

Author's Note:  This has been a long time in updating.  Sorry 'bout that.  Actually, I lost interest in it for awhile, but thanks to JenniGellerBing for the momentum I needed to start it up again.  And thanks to everyone else who reviewed!  Keep it up!!  I really don't like this chapter as much as the others, but I hope you do!!  Enjoy!

Disclaimer:  I don't own any of them.  And none of them are being held captive in my closet for my own personal pleasure and enjoyment.  I promise.  (Matthew and Matt, get back in there!!  I told you not to come out until they were gone!)  

Copyright 2003 MusicCityDiva

**Rachel: **_First Impressions_

It was the third time in one hour that Rachel's ears had been assaulted by the signature high-pitched squeal of her best friend Mindy.  She really should be oblivious to it by now, but today Mindy's brand of enthusiasm was beginning to grate on Rachel's nerves.  Although prone to bouts of girlish shrieks and giggles herself, Rachel prided herself on the fact that she was nowhere near as annoying as Mindy.  Not that she would ever comment on this fact out loud, of course.  After all, Mindy was her best friend.  

_'Not my first best friend, though.'  _Rachel frowned as the unbidden thought floated through her memory.  She hadn't thought about Monica in ages.  In fact, she wasn't even sure where Monica was now.  The thought was pretty sobering, considering the girls had once vowed to be "best friends forever no matter what."  An uncharacteristic wave of guilt washed over Rachel, and she made a mental note to ask her parents if they had heard from the Gellers recently.

An insistent tug on her arm pulled Rachel back to reality.  Mindy was looking expectantly at Rachel, apparently waiting for an opinion.  Rachel struggled to feign interest, but, to her surprise, found herself wishing she were currently standing in the middle of Bloomingdale's with Monica instead of Mindy.

"Rachel?  What do you think?"  Mindy's voice cut through Rachel's musings.  

Rachel glanced at Mindy's hands, expecting to be asked to choose between two silk blouses or something.  When she realized that Mindy's hands were empty, Rachel looked questioningly at Mindy's laughing expression.  

"Not there, silly."  Mindy grasped Rachel's arm for a second time, this time succeeding in physically turning Rachel's attention where she wanted it.

"There," Mindy announced, pointing toward a well-dressed man a few yards away.  

Rachel rolled her eyes at her friend's utter lack of subtlety.

"I see him, Min," Rachel hissed, gently catching Mindy's arm to pull it from its mid-air point before the man noticed he was being stalked.  Keeping a firm hold on her friend's arm, she then dragged Mindy behind a nearby rack of clothes, hoping to obscure their observations slightly more than their middle-of-the-aisle scrutiny.  Mindy remained unfazed, causing Rachel to wonder about her friend's sudden infatuation.  

"Hey, haven't you been watching this guy for months?  What makes him so special today?"

Mindy dropped her voice just slightly—hardly what Rachel would classify as a whisper—and kept her eyes glued on her unsuspecting target of the moment.

"Do you not remember the Rockford's 35th anniversary party tomorrow night, Rach?  I'm in an emergency date situation here!  I can't believe that I didn't hang on to Andrew for another week.  He may have been a jerk, but at least I wouldn't have had to go through the stress of finding someone else for this party."

Rachel shrugged, hoping to convey nonchalance that she didn't really feel.  "Couldn't you just go alone?" she asked, all ready anticipating Mindy's horror at the thought of attending a country club event without arm candy.

As predicted, Mindy looked at Rachel as if she had just sprouted another head.  "Are you kidding?  And risk getting propositioned by every single loser there?  I don't think so!"  She cut off her sentence abruptly, and studied Rachel's expression.  "Why?  Are you actually going alone?"

Averting her gaze from her friend, Rachel shook her head.  "Mm, no.  My parents, um, kinda set me up with the son of some friends of theirs."

Somehow, Mindy managed to look simultaneously repulsed at the thought of a parental-initiated blind date and vaguely interested at the promise of a fresh male specimen in the country club pond.  "Oh yeah?  Do you know who he is?"

"Um…Barry something or other.  I think he's a dentist."

By this time, Mindy's attention was refocused on the man across the room.  She nodded politely, but her next words confirmed that she had lost interest in Rachel's blind date.  "He is gorgeous, isn't he?" she asked Rachel, although Rachel could tell Mindy was not really expecting an answer.

Rachel nodded nonetheless, unable to disagree with her friend's observations, despite the twinge of annoyance at Mindy's lack of sympathy for her situation.  Actually, when she really thought about it, she was more annoyed with herself for having to accept the arranged date from her parents in the first place.  She was Rachel Green, for heaven's sake!  The girl who had certainly never had trouble finding dates before—in fact, men were usually taking numbers!  Not too sound too arrogant or anything.  But somehow she'd gotten roped into going on a date that her parents had set up!  The whole idea was simply appalling.

Rachel looked again at the man they were observing.  The man did have a particular _je ne sais quois _about him.  He was stylish without looking unapproachable, dignified without appearing pretentious, and friendly without seeming insincere.  In fact, he looked like the kind of guy that Rachel would like to meet—rather than the usual aristocratic snobs from the country club that she usually dated.  Rachel appraised the man carefully from head to foot before lowering her voice to a confidential tone and settling familiarly into Mindy's fantasy.  She even stopped caring about how they must look—two grown women half-crouched behind a rack of clothes, peering out on either side at the attractive man across the room.

"So what do you know about him?"  Rachel whispered, knowing that her friend would have done her research.  When it came to the opposite sex, Mindy never took her subjects lightly.  She considered it her personal mission to scavenge for every attainable detail—and even some that weren't so attainable.  

"His name is Mark," Mindy murmured back, her voice barely discernible amongst the garments hanging from the rack.  Rachel leaned closer, not wanting to miss a word.  "And I think he's a buyer here or he works for one or something like that..." Mindy's voice trailed off as she stated his occupation, and Rachel smiled, knowing that a man's looks were of far more significance to Mindy than his profession could ever be.  The only factor that mattered to Mindy about a potential husband's job was simply whether or not he made enough money to support her high-maintenance lifestyle—namely summer homes in Europe and enough fur coats to make her the envy of every socialite this side of the Mississippi.    

But another aspect had caught Rachel's attention, and she momentarily forgot about their immediate purpose for huddling behind clothing in a department store.  

"He's a buyer?" she asked Mindy.  Or, more accurately, she asked the back of Mindy's head.  

"Huh?" came the distracted reply.

Frustrated with their nearly-inaudible tone of conspiracy, Rachel spoke in her normal speaking voice.  

"This guy is a buyer?  Here at Bloomingdale's?"  

Mindy made a frantic "shhh-ing" gesture with her hands without bothering to look at Rachel.  She only nodded hurriedly, letting Rachel know that she did not consider these questions to be pertinent to their current mission.  

Rachel persisted, now not only genuinely curious about Mark's vocation, but also playfully amused at the annoyance she was apparently causing Mindy.  

"So he, like, buys stuff?  For a living?  You mean, we could actually be getting paid for shopping?"  

Mindy finally turned to face Rachel, her expression a mixture of exasperation and disbelief.  

"You do realize, Rachel, that having a job would require you to come here every single day…"

Rachel nodded enthusiastically.

"…and look at thousands of skirts and boots and lingerie and belts and pants hour upon hour…"

Rachel's smile increased dramatically.  

"…and they would probably only give you one hour for lunch break!"  

Rachel immediately banished all thoughts of a flourishing career in retail as both women shuddered in horror.  Imagine having only one hour for lunch!!  When would a person ever find time for gossip?  

Seeing that she had proven her point, Mindy nodded with satisfaction, knowing that she had rid Rachel of any preposterous ideas of becoming a career woman.  She turned back to the man she had her eyes on, noting that he was meandering dangerously out of her field of vision.

Rachel couldn't resist one last question, however.  

"But do you think they at least give their employees a fifty-percent discount?"  

Mindy whirled to face her friend, her irritation giving way to laughter as she noticed the teasing expression on Rachel's face.  Choking back a burst of giggles, Mindy attempted to sound stern.  

"Can we please focus here?  I'm trying to concentrate!" she hissed at a still-snickering Rachel.

Perhaps it was their feeble attempts to stop laughing or their dedicated approach to their spying game, but for one reason or another, neither girl noticed the man hovering over them until his voice resonated through their hiding spot.  

"May I ask exactly what it is that you are concentrating on?" 

After the initial moment of shock, Mindy was the first to spring to her feet and face the owner of the voice.  Rachel proved slightly less graceful, managing to turn her ankle sideways and break the unsturdy (yet expensive) heel of her left shoe.  Uttering a curse under her breath, she balanced precariously on her right foot in order to remove the ruined shoe from her left.  Bending at the waist, she reached for the miscreant heel, only to discover that it was all ready being held in an outstretched hand.  

"Thanks," she muttered, rising to her full height and sorrowfully accepting the piece.  She pondered briefly what to do with the useless mess before finally shoving both pieces into her oversized purse and looking up at the man who had interrupted their bumbling attempts at a career in espionage.  

He was all ready holding out a hand for her to shake.  Rachel took it, habit prompting her to assess the man's appearance without conscious thought.  While he did not possess the classic good looks of the Bloomingdale's employee, this man certainly wasn't completely unfortunate-looking.  But he probably also wouldn't be the type to provoke sneers of envy amongst the socialites at the club, either.  

_'He looks kind of familiar, actually,' _Rachel thought, unable to shake the uneasy feeling of recognition.  For some reason, a mental image of Mr. Potato Head flashed through her mind, causing Rachel to momentarily furrow her brow in confusion.  She shrugged the feeling off just as quickly.  _'He probably has a great personality,' _Rachel told herself, settling on the fallback quality attributed to all men who failed to give Brad Pitt a run for his money.

Once again shaking herself from her reverie, Rachel realized two things.  One, sometime during her own silent commentary, Mindy had seized the opportunity to grasp the man's full attention and was now chatting with animation that Rachel could only call blatant flirting.  Two, due to the earlier removal of her broken shoe, Rachel was now standing lopsided, since her remaining heel added almost two inches to her height.  Flushing an embarrassed red, Rachel kicked off the other show, trying to be as smooth as possible.  This accomplished, she contemplated briefly on how to regain the man's attention before realizing that his gaze was flickering continuously to her.

Actually, Rachel wasn't quite sure why she was suddenly determined to be the center of this man's attention.  It certainly wasn't that she was especially attracted to him.  Rachel could only chalk up her sudden resolve to the thrill of competition.  Never before had Rachel lost a potential date to Mindy—never mind that, technically, she all ready had a date.  And although there was a first time for everything, Rachel was not prepared to test that theory now.  

Reaching out, Rachel rested one manicured hand on the man's arm and smiled flirtatiously.  He turned an inquisitive gaze on her, giving Rachel enough self-satisfaction to counteract the venomous glare Mindy was aiming in her direction.  Rachel scrambled for a conversation topic, trying unsuccessfully to avoid her sudden feelings of guilt.

"So where did you say you're from?"  Rachel asked.

To Rachel's irritation, the man smiled quickly at Mindy before answering Rachel's inquiry.

"Actually, Mindy and I were just discussing the fact that we're all from Long Island."

"Small world, isn't it?"  Mindy piped in, smiling smugly at Rachel.

Rachel smirked back.  Fine.  If Mindy wanted to play, Rachel was more than ready.

The man, fortunately, remained oblivious to the girls' rivalry.

"So what do you ladies do for fun in Long Island?"

Rachel opened her mouth to reply, but found that, once again, Mindy was quicker on the uptake.

"Actually, our families both belong to Inwood Country Club," Mindy bragged in her best society tone, expecting the man to be impressed by the prestige.  However, both women were surprised when the man chimed in when Mindy stated the club's name.  

He chuckled at the girls' baffled expressions before explaining.  "My family belongs to the same club."

"Funny that we've never crossed paths before.  Who do you know?"  Rachel interjected, silently congratulating herself on finally getting a word in edgewise.  She wasn't counting on Mindy's sudden abandonment of subtlety.

"Yes, do you know the Rockfords?  Will you be attending their party tomorrow evening?"  Mindy asked as Rachel started at her.  Even Rachel could hear the desperation in her friend's voice and realized just how important having a date was to Mindy.  Suddenly feeling selfish, Rachel decided to back off.  After all, technically, she all ready had a date.

The man simply nodded, his smile indicating that he had caught on to the purpose of this conversation.  He simply nodded in response, although Rachel knew he was aware of the forthcoming question.  

Mindy didn't disappoint.  "Would you happen to be looking for a date?  Because I know a certain eligible…"

The man cut in before Mindy could even complete her proposal.  "Actually, I would love to accept, but I have all ready been claimed," he smiled apologetically before adding, "I'm sure she's not nearly as beautiful as either of you lovely ladies."

Rachel mentally gagged at the corny cliché, noting that Mindy had all ready turned away to search for the man they had previously ogled.  She also realized that Mindy had left her with the task of getting rid of this particular failed date attempt.  Suddenly very bored with the whole manhunt, Rachel scrambled for a departure line that was both polite but obviously disinterested.  

"Well, maybe we'll see you tomorrow night, then," she finally commented, hoping that he would take the hint and leave. 

Fortunately, he nodded in understanding, prompting Rachel to smile in relief.  Before he walked away, however, he glanced one last time at Mindy and leaned in to offer one last remark to Rachel.

"About tomorrow night.  I certainly hope I see _you _there," he commented, placing a hand on Rachel's as he emphasized the word 'you'.  "In fact, I hope I'll be seeing a lot of you.  And not just at the country club."

With that, he strolled away jauntily, leaving a dumbfounded Rachel staring open-mouthed after him.  As her brain struggled to catch up with her emotions, Rachel found herself suddenly greatly anticipating the next night.  It wasn't until she turned to seek out Mindy that she realized she hadn't even asked his name.   

TO BE CONTINUED…

Please review!!  I need to know whether or not you think the stories are interesting enough to continue!


	7. Monica: Ain't Life Grand?

Author's Note:  Yay!  And on to Round 2 of the characters' stories!  I'm trying to be more prompt about this update stuff, but procrastination is a powerful force, ya know?  And for that matter, so is writer's block.  On another note (well, not another note, since this IS the author's note—haha—ahem), if you have any suggestions for further plot ideas for each of the characters' storylines, please feel free to throw 'em out there—e-mail or IM them!!  I'm not guaranteeing anything, but I sure could use the ideas!

Disclaimer:  Well, I heard they were up for auction on E-bay, but unfortunately I don't get a paycheck until Friday, so I guess I'm out of luck.  This time, anyway.

Copyright 2003 MusicCityDiva

**Monica: **_Ain't Life Grand?_

The interview really couldn't have gone any better.  Even her mother would have had difficulty finding something to criticize.  Monica restrained herself from literally skipping out the front door of the upscale restaurant, but she couldn't hold back the gleeful giggle that escaped her lips once she stepped outside.

The manager had hired her on the spot, without a moment's hesitation.  Monica smiled as she recalled the compliments he had showered over her amiable demeanor, her high ranking in culinary school, even her professional attire!

'Take that, Mom,' Monica found herself thinking smugly.  'Ross isn't the only successful Geller, after all.'

Deliberating about her mother quickly dampened her high spirits, and Monica quickly banished any further negative thoughts, searching for a more constructive expression of the day's accomplishment.  

As if fated, Monica's eye caught the weathered sign of an international marketplace and without a second thought, she veered directly for the entrance.  What better way to celebrate her new position as a professional chef than to practice by preparing a feast of her own?  Double-checking her wallet for her credit card, Monica smiled broadly at the sleepy-eyed cashier behind the counter and practically skipped toward the fresh pasta.

***

Just over an hour later, Monica bounded up the stairs to her apartment, one heavy paper bag balanced precariously in each arm.  As she pondered the feat of removing her keys from her jeans' pocket, Monica remembered the last time she had struggled to unlock her door with her hands full.  Glancing warily at the bulging bags, Monica couldn't help but send up a prayer that Chandler would come to her rescue this time, too.

'The gods must be feeling friendly today,' was Monica's first thought as she rounded the corner and encountered Chandler about to enter his own apartment.  Monica silently offered her gratitude to the greater powers and quickly called Chandler's name before he closed his door behind him.  

She really couldn't blame him for looking vaguely surprised as he turned to her with questioning eyes.  Monica felt her knees weaken as his crystal-blue gaze settled on her.  

"Monica?"

Blinking furiously, Monica struggled to reconcile the memories of Chandler-the-Former Crush with the reality of Chandler-the-Neighbor.  Fortunately, reality prevailed and Monica hurried to explain her reasons for calling his name in the first place.

"I…I was h-hoping you could help me out," Monica stammered, cursing herself for her inability of stating the request normally.

Chandler nodded in immediate understanding and reached to unburden one of the bags from Monica's arms.

She held tight, though, realizing that it was impossible to surrender one bad without jostling the other.  She spoke quickly, hoping to avoid a repeat performance of their previous hallway catastrophe.

"Actually, do you think you could just grab my keys and unlock the door for me?"

"Oh!  Yeah, sure," Chandler responded, releasing his grip on the bag balanced in Monica's left arm.  His hands lingered in their mid-air pose as he assessed Monica.  She watched as his eyes briefly scanned her petite form, wondering why he was staring at her but reveling in the fact at the same time.  That is, until his confused tone interrupted her thoughts.  

"Um, it would probably be easier to unlock your door if I knew where to find your keys."

Monica felt her face flush in hot embarrassment, as she realized he hadn't been admiring her at all.  Fervently hoping Chandler couldn't guess her thoughts, Monica averted her eyes before answering him.

"They're, um…" 

That's when she remembered her keys' location, and she turned an even deeper shade of red as she continued. 

"They're in the left pocket of my jeans."

He hesitated only slightly, although it was noticeable to Monica, before sliding his hand halfway into her pocket, his fingers searching for the key ring.  Monica held her breath, berating herself for her giddiness over the feeling of his faint touch against her thigh, however nonsexual.  All too soon, he pulled his hand and her keys from the pocket and opened the door before Monica was able to exhale.

"There you go," Chandler announced, holding the door open and ushering Monica inside.  

Forgetting her embarrassment, Monica plunked the heavy load onto the kitchen table and rubbed her aching arms, not caring as one bag landed sideways and several items spilled out.  She hadn't realized Chandler had followed her inside until he deftly caught a Roma tomato as it rolled off the tabletop's edge.  

"Big meal, huh?" he asked, taking in the contents of the overflowing bags.  

Monica nodded.  "Yeah.  I'm kind of celebrating something," she replied, knowing that, naturally, he would next ask what she was celebrating.  

Sure enough, the question came, and Monica considered whether or not she wanted to share the information, remembering that she had deliberately maintained her solitude since moving to the city almost a month ago.  Almost immediately, though, she realized that her desire for total independence had eclipsed her need for normal human contact.  Her hunger for friendship prompted her to answer Chandler's curious inquiry.

"Do you remember how I wanted to be a chef?"  Monica waited for Chandler's nod before continuing, wondering if he remembered the role he had played in her career aspiration.  "Well, I got my first official job today."

Whether or not he remembered his casual comment all those Thanksgivings ago, the smile that spread across Chandler's face was genuine.  Before either of them knew what was happening, he had pulled Monica into a congratulatory embrace.

A flood of emotions washed over Monica as she returned the hug.  Without warning, tears sprang to her eyes, and Monica realized just how much she had been craving genuine acceptance.  Ever since moving to the city, she had subconsciously been searching for the approval that would counteract the feelings of inadequacy imposed upon her by her mother.

As Monica moved to rest her cheek on Chandler's shoulder, she realized that she had been clinging to him for just one moment too long.  The same thought must have occurred to Chandler, because they pulled apart almost simultaneously, shuffling their feet and clearing their throats awkwardly, each wondering what to say next.  Still battling her sudden onslaught of tears, Monica was relieved when Chandler broke the silence. 

"So which restaurant was lucky enough to snap you up?"

Monica smiled, acknowledging the compliment within his inquiry.

"Iridium," she told him, watching as he nodded knowingly.  "You've been there?"

Abruptly, Chandler stopped nodding.  "Well, no.  Not exactly, no," he sputtered, and Monica felt her excitement fade.  She hadn't even considered the fact that she might have locked herself into some dive that no one had ever heard of.  The expression of her face must have given away her thoughts, because Chandler suddenly scrambled to amend his confession.

"It's not that I don't like it or anything.  I mean, I don't know if I don't like it.  I'm sure I do.  I mean, I'm sure it'll be great.  If I go there.  That is, _when _I go there.  Because I'm going to go.  You wanna go?"

Monica couldn't help but laugh at his bumbling attempt at clarification.  Hearing her giggle, Chandler halted his inept rambling and met Monica's eyes with his own, offering her a half-smile.  

Monica returned the smile, suddenly feeling at home for the first time since she'd arrived in the city.  Wondering why she had avoided making friends for so long, Monica realized that she wanted many more moments like this.  She wanted to be friends with Chandler Bing.  

Well, if she was going to be honest with herself, she wanted so much more.  But she was content with the "friends" part.  For now, anyway.

Glancing around her kitchen, which was now cluttered with enough food to feed the entire building, Monica decided to extend the invitation she had been debating since she had first encountered Chandler in the hallway.

"Hey, Chandler?"  Her voice sounded hesitant, even to her own ears, and Monica fervently hoped he could not sense her nervousness.

"Would you want to come over for dinner later tonight?  I mean, I bought all this food and it's just me, so you'd really be helping me out, you know?"

Chandler's nod put Monica's doubts to rest, and she stopped babbling.

"So I guess this meal will be a little more elaborate than macaroni and cheese?" he quipped.

Monica recalled her previous impromptu invitation and laughed companionably.  "Well, it's still pasta," she told him, gesturing to one of the bags.  "Just not of the elbow variety."

He grinned.  "That's fine by me," he returned.  "As long as there's cheese involved somewhere.  What time should I come over?"  he asked, meandering toward the door.

Monica glanced over her shoulder at the clock on the microwave and quickly figured preparation times in her head, for both the food andherself.  

"Is 7:30 too late?" she finally asked.

Chandler shook his head, whistling cheerfully as he let himself out.  Monica vaguely heard him call a muffled "see ya later" as the door swung shut.  She beamed idiotically at the closed door for a few seconds, unable to explain why she suddenly felt so self-satisfied.  Maybe it was the launch of her chosen career.  Maybe it was the fact that she had actually made social plans on her own, like a real city-living twenty-something, just like on TV.  

Whatever it was, Monica couldn't hold back a small giggle as she twirled impulsively on one heel, almost losing her balance.  Just in time, she reached out and caught the back of one of her kitchen chairs, wincing as it scraped nosily on the hardwood floor.  But her mood was too good to be altered by a tiny scratch on the kitchen floor.  Promising herself to polish the floor tomorrow, Monica did a gleeful dance around the table and turned to unload the groceries. 

That's when she saw Chandler standing in the doorway.  Monica flushed as she realized he must have re-entered during her collision with the chair, and therefore had probably seen her goofy jig around the table.  

"Sorry," he offered, holding out one hand and revealing the Roma tomato he held.  "I just wanted to return this.  I never put it down after I caught it."

Monica accepted it with eyes averted, still embarrassed that Chandler had caught her in such a ridiculous situation.  Wondering if he thought her little dance was due to his acceptance of her invitation, she hoped that he would just pretend he hadn't seen anything and spare her the humiliation.  

Thankfully, all he said "see you in a few hours" before letting himself out once again.  But not before Monica saw the expression that flitted across his face.

He was smiling.

***

Nearly two hours later, Monica knelt before the buffet chest that she used for a TV stand and linen storage.  Sliding open a bottom drawer, she rummaged through her tablecloths and fancy napkins until she found was she was looking for—two silver candlesticks.  She hesitated briefly before adding two taper candles, caught between wondering if Chandler would read into the implication the candles offered and half-hoping that he would.  

_'Just friends, Mon,' _she reminded herself, placing the candles artfully in the center of her immaculate table.  Reaching into a nearby drawer, she retrieved a box of matches and lit the tapers experimentally, then stepped back to admire the overall effect.  

_'Perfect.'  _Monica smiled as she surveyed her handiwork.  Her new dishes and wine goblets were arranged in perfect angles around the table, the candles bounced cozy shadows around the gradually dimming room, and best of all, the food smelled…well, good enough to eat.  

All that was left to do was change into the outfit she had laid out on her bed earlier.  "I'm not changing for him," she muttered as she entered her bedroom and eyed the clothing skeptically.  "I just want to wear something clean."  

Yet she couldn't deny the fact that the chosen V-neck fuzzy black sweater accentuated her figure in just the way she intended.  And she had to agree with her mother's disapproving admonitions when she pulled on clean jeans that were just a smidge too tight.  But as she glanced into the full-length mirror to fasten simple silver hoop earrings, she grinned at her reflection, pleased with the results.  

A knock at the door jolted Monica from her somewhat egotistical self-evaluation, and she hurried to answer it, her heart fluttering expectantly despite her quickly wavering resolve.  She flung open the door just slightly too eagerly to be blasé, realizing too late that she should have first inspected her visitor through the peephole.  This _was _New York City, after all.

Fortunately, the man she revealed in the open doorway was indeed Chandler.  Monica scrutinized his appearance with what she hoped was subtle interest, curious to see if he had changed clothes as well.  She was pleased to note that his shirt was different from the one he had sported earlier and that he apparently had decided to leave his sweater vests in the closet. 

_'All the better,' _Monica mused.  _'Less to take off later.'_

She blushed furiously as the thought floated through her mind and extended Chandler a stammering invitation to enter, hoping that he wouldn't notice her reddening face.

But Chandler was all ready complimenting the Italian aroma that saturated the apartment before Monica had even closed the door behind them.  The flushed color in her face returned to a normal hue as a grateful smile spread from one ear to another.  

Monica was just opening her mouth to inform him of the entrée when Chandler whirled suddenly to face her.

"I'm such an idiot!" he proclaimed with a vehemence that startled Monica.  "I forgot to bring a bottle of wine!"

Monica smiled in relief.  "Oh!  That's okay.  I all ready have…"  

But her consolation was cut off as Chandler interrupted.  "Wait.  I think I might have something.  I'll be right back."  He exited through the door he'd entered, leaving Monica staring after him in amused bewilderment.  

He returned moments later, his right arm behind his back.  

"Well, I didn't have wine exactly," he told Monica with a sheepish grin.  "But I did have…" he paused dramatically before presenting the bottle with a flourish, "…grape juice!"

Monica's infectious laugh rang through the apartment, prompting Chandler's grin to grow even wider.  

"I can take it back," he offered, still smiling.

A barely-concealed giggle could be detected in Monica's reply.  "No!" she protested.  "It's great.  Really.  I mean, after all, who needs Pinot Grigio…"  She rolled the Italian consonants off her tongue with an effortless flair "…when you've got Welch's?"

He responded with a noise somewhere between a huff and a chuckle even as he reached for the fragile wine goblets that rested on the table.  "Fine," he announced in a mock-offended tone.  "See if I let you share my juice now."  He poured the purple liquid into one goblet and took a sip, raising his eyebrows at her over the rim.  "You'll be sorry later when you're tipsy and I'm perfectly sober."

Monica matched his raised eyebrows expression with one of her own.  "And why is that?  What happens when you get around tipsy women?"

Still sipping pretentiously, Chandler sputtered on his mouthful of juice.  "Um…" 

So she had stumped him.  Monica watched in delight as Chandler mentally scrambled for his next witty remark.  

He finally settled on a smug look combined with, "That's for me to know and you to find out."

"In that case," Monica strode to the refrigerator and pulled out the chilled bottle of wine she had stored there previously, "maybe I'll just take my chances."  

And with Chandler watching intently, she filled the goblet nearly to the rim and lifted it to her lips, leaving him to interpret the action and just what it implied.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Thanks for reading!!  Now could you please put a bit of sunshine into my dreary day and review?


	8. Chandler: Magical Moments

Author's Note:  Okay, I finally caved in.  The whole "Monica and Chandler dating" premise became too much to juggle, so when writing this chapter, I just contrived this chapter along a completely different line than the original story I had set up.  In other words, Monica and Chandler never dated!  This story now pretty much follows true _Friends_ reality, so this all could have happened before the show's pilot.  Additionally, I went back and altered the two previous 'Monica' chapters as well as the previous 'Chandler' chapter (chapters 1,2, and 7), so you may want to glance those over, if you want.  The only conflicts with real show may be in the time references, but since the show's writers mess that up all the time, I just had to do my best.  

Oh, so in answer to your last review, JenniGellerBing---yes, the story is now the same as the real show.  Thanks again for the inspiration!  J

And, catnamedzane, thanks for the new name!  I like the name Bert.  Can I call you Ernie?  "We're not Bert and Ernie!"  

Finally, thanks for all you who are faithfully waiting "nine years and a day" for me to get these chapters up!  My update time is gradually lessening, did ya notice?  Huh, huh?

Okay, shutting up now.  You may now proceed (with caution, of course) to the story.

Disclaimer: I can't even afford to buy The Complete Third Season on DVD yet, much less purchase the actual characters!

Copyright 2003 MusicCityDiva

**Chandler: **_Magical Moments_

            By the end of the salad course, Chandler had surrendered his grape juice for white wine.  Monica had insisted on washing his goblet before filling it with Pinot Grigio, informing him that the taste would be "compromised" if the wine were tainted with any remnants of the juice.  Chandler merely raised his eyebrows, but refrained from commenting.  She _was _the expert, after all.

            He had to admit; he'd had some reservations about this—about hanging out with Monica, particularly since she'd been so obviously avoiding him since she'd moved in across the hall.  But here he was—sitting across the table from her, pleasantly surprised to discover that he was truly enjoying himself.  And that he hoped there would be many more dinners like this one.  

            "And now for the main course!"  Monica announced grandly, although Chandler caught the flicker of apprehension on her face as she set a full plate before him.  

            As if knowing that he had seen her nervousness, Monica smiled uncertainly as she sat down with her own plate.  "It's my first time cooking a fancy meal for someone, you know?" she confessed.  "You're sort of my guinea pig, I guess."

            Chandler appreciatively inhaled the aromatic steam wafting from his plate before responding.  "A guinea pig, huh?  There are worse jobs in the world.  Like mine, for example," he told her with a self-deprecating grin.  

            Her uneasiness disappeared visibly and she lifted a full fork in salute to him before taking the first bite.  Across the table, Chandler did the same, closing his eyes in bliss at the flavor.  Yeah, he was definitely going to be eating here more often.  This beat take-out _any _night.

            Opening his eyes, he found Monica staring at him intently, in apparent attempt to determine his opinion.  

            " 'S guf," he assured her, his mouth still halfway full.  "Good, I mean," he qualified, swallowing.  "_Really_ good.  So what do you call it?"

            "It's spinach tortellini stuffed with ricotta and garlic with a basil tomato cream sauce," she informed him in her best "chef" voice, as if reciting the specials _du jour_.  

            Chandler loaded his fork again, pausing only to take a sip of wine.  "I'll never remember all that.  But maybe I'll learn if you make this for me at least once a week," he said with an impish gleam in his blue eyes.

            "Oh, is that how it's gonna be?  Your friendship is conditional upon how much I cook for you?"  Monica asked, a smile playing at the corner of her lips despite her best attempts to sound annoyed.    

            Chandler shrugged in mock disinterest, his eyes fixed on the plate of tortellini before him.  "Well, you know.  I'm a working man.  And you know what they say; behind every good working man there's a great woman.  Preferably a great woman who cooks."  

            Chandler purposefully kept his focus on his plate, waiting for a reaction from Monica.  He was rewarded almost immediately, although the response was more than for what he'd bargained.  An inadvertent burst of laughter was not the only thing that erupted from Monica's side of the table.  Just as Chandler looked up, he was assaulted with the shower of champagne that sprayed from Monica's laughing mouth.  

            Chandler blinked furiously, trying in vain to clear his vision.  He fumbled for his napkin, settling for the one pressed into his hand by a mortified Monica.  Dabbing away the moisture on his face, he hid his growing smile behind the cloth and peered at his red-faced dinner partner.  

            _'She blushes more than anyone I know,' _Chandler mused.  _'I wonder if I bring that out in her.  Not that embarrassment is the most desirable quality to stir up in a woman.'  _He watched as she uncomfortably looked around for anything else to stare at besides Chandler himself.  _'She's kinda cute when she blushes, though.'_

That thought in mind, Chandler realized he could milk this for all it was worth.  Using the napkin he still held, he blotted at his face and shirt with exaggerated care, all the while observing Monica from one corner of his eye.  Finally deciding he'd tortured her enough, he set the napkin next to his unharmed dinner plate and met Monica's anxious gaze.  

            "I suppose I'll be all right," he finally admitted, feigning great distress.  

            The worry lines in Monica's forehead grew deeper as she began to apologize profusely with incomplete sentences.  "I'm so sorry, Chandler.  I can't believe…I mean, I've never…you just…if there's anything I can…I'm so sorry!"  

            Chandler struggled to maintain his martyr image, only dropping the act as she rose to find a fresh towel.  Sighing loudly enough for her to hear clearly, he spoke with the embellished benevolence of a king granting respite to his subjects.

            "Really, Monica, I'll be okay.  Now it may take a few weeks of home-cooked meals, but I think in time, the wounds will heal."  

            His sentence was punctuated with a muffled yelp as a relieved Monica tossed the clean towel in his face.  He caught it easily with one hand and offered it back to her, waving the white terrycloth as one would a flag of surrender.

            She refused to accept the peace offering, however, instead maintaining her leveled gaze and crossed arms.  Although Chandler knew her anger was just for show, he was struck with how important it suddenly seemed to see her smile. 

            "You realize this is the second thing you've thrown in my face in the last ten minutes," he remarked, still holding out the towel.  "I think smarter guys would have taken the hint and left by now."  He grinned wryly.  "Unfortunately, I happen to be a bonafide glutton for punishment."  

            _Bingo_.  There was the smile he'd been anticipating.  Chandler was overcome with a feeling of satisfied giddiness as he watched the sparkle in her eyes travel down to tug at the corners of her lips.  She fought valiantly against a full-blown smile for a moment, attempting to maintain a stern expression that faded quickly as Chandler tossed the towel in her direction.  

            Giggling, Monica sank into her chair.  "So what you're saying is that you want to hire me as your personal chef?"

            Chandler nodded thoughtfully.  "You could clean for me, too, if you want."

            Monica shook her head in exasperation, causing her dangling earrings to brush lightly against her jaw line and inadvertently distracting Chandler from her next words.  He vaguely listened as his thoughts turned to the possibility of touching the soft skin that ran down her neck.  

            "So you're looking for someone to take on all the responsibilities of a wife but with none of the perks?"

            Chandler caught the suggestion in her tone and glanced hastily away from his admiration of her collarbone, struggling not to act flustered.  Truth be known, he wasn't sure what he was looking for.  All he knew what that this dinner had begun with the intention of getting to know an old acquaintance and had somehow evolved into the possibility of a relationship.

            A relationship?  With Monica Geller?  His college roommate's little sister?  The girl who had cut off his toe, however unintentional?  In light of past circumstances, the idea of dating this woman seemed like a very bad idea.

            But as Chandler glanced into her expectant blue eyes, sparkling golden in the candlelight, all rational thoughts fled his brain and the idea suddenly seemed like a very good one, indeed.  

            Regardless of the fact that he had no idea what he was going to say, Chandler finally opened his mouth to make a suggestion…

            …and was jarred rudely from the magical moment by the ring of the telephone.  

            _'So that really does happen in real life,' _Chandler thought as Monica rushed to answer it.

            Turning in his seat, he watched Monica lift the receiver to her ear.

            "Hello…oh, hi, Mom…as a matter of fact, I _am _busy…dinner…an old friend…yes, it's a guy!"

            Not even the hearing impaired could have missed the irritation that edged into Monica's voice.  Chandler remembered vividly just how grating Judy Geller could be, even from his brief encounters with the woman.  He caught Monica's eye and smiled reassuringly, hoping she wouldn't mind his obvious eavesdropping.

            Apparently she didn't, because she rolled her eyes comically before continuing her conversation.

            "Oh, really?…is that so?…oh, I really don't…Mom, I don't think…I'd rather not…okay, fine…_fine_…I said okay!…no, no, no…I can find my own…in fact, I all ready know who…I won't…okay…seven o'clock…I'll see you then…bye."

            She hung up the phone with a force that surprised Chandler before turning to look at him directly.  

            "Problems? " he asked lightly, unsure whether or not she'd want to talk.

            She didn't respond right away, only stared at Chandler thoughtfully for such a long period that Chandler began to squirm uncomfortably under her gaze, feeling like an errant grade schooler.

            When she finally spoke, Chandler noted both the bargaining tone in her voice and the pleading look in her eyes.

            "Still want me to keep cooking for you?"

***

            Just over an hour later, Chandler bid Monica goodnight and left her apartment with a full stomach, a Tupperware container of leftover pasta…and a date for Saturday night.  

            Entering his unlocked apartment, Chandler pondered the irony of the situation.  Never before had he gotten a date so easily, especially when he hadn't even been the one to extend the invitation!  

            He grinned as he pictured his bragging rights at work the next day—the friendly punches to the arm, the congratulatory "dude"s, and, best of all, the envious stares.  After all, he was just an ordinary, average, everyday guy.  And she was not only gorgeous, but also sweet and intelligent and funny.  

            And she was everything Chandler had ever wanted.  

            But as he slid the Tupperware container into the refrigerator, an ominous thought occurred to him.

            He was certainly not going to be the one to tell Ross.

***

            Five o'clock Friday afternoon could not come soon enough.  Chandler glowered at the clock in the bottom right corner of his computer screen, willing the last fifteen minutes till the hour to tick away faster.  Sighing, he reached for the mouse and clicked on the icon for solitaire.  

            As it had been so frequently in the past twenty-four hours, Chandler's mind wandered to thoughts of his impending date with Monica the next night.  Although he wasn't about to admit it to anyone else, he had even planned his attire for the event.  

            It had taken less persuasion than one would have expected for Monica to convince Chandler to be her date to a party at her parent's country club.  The party was an anniversary celebration for some wealthy elderly couple and apparently Monica's parents would be no less than ostracized from high society unless they were to attend as an entire Geller unit, complete with their children's "significant others."  Nevertheless, Chandler was happy to comply if the event secured a date with Monica, even if he'd have to endure the stuffy high society of his childhood once again.  

            "Bing!"  

            The sound of his boss' voice startled Chandler from his computer game, causing him to click mistakenly on a card and lose the game.  Frowning at the monitor, Chandler glanced up at the imposing man towering over his desk.  

            "Yes, Mr. Kostelick?"  Chandler asked, praying that his boss wasn't planning on keeping him later tonight.  He had a busy night planned—a busy night of doing absolutely nothing.  

            Mr. Kostelick shifted his bulky weight and eyed Chandler suspiciously before speaking.  "Well, Bing, I need a favor."  

            _'Just great,' _Chandler thought.  _'There goes my Friday night.' _

"It's about tomorrow night."

            _'Oh.  Oh!'_

Chandler hastily cut in before his boss could go any further.  "Um, sir, I'm kinda busy tomorrow night."

            Mr. Kostelick's suspiciously gaze suddenly turned more foreboding.  "Oh, is that right?  That's unfortunate, I must say.  Because my niece is going to be in town tomorrow and I would certainly appreciate someone younger than me to take her out.  Show her the town, as you kids say."

            Knowing he was treading on thin ice, Chandler persisted, his date with Monica still foremost in his mind.  

            "With all due respect, sir, I'm sure your niece is lovely.  But my plans are kind of important."

            "Well, Bing, I certainly didn't mean to imply that they weren't important.  But this is important to me."  Mr. Kostelick raised his eyebrows meaningfully.  "And I might be willing to make it worth your while."  He rubbed his thumb and index finger together in the international sign for money.

            _'Rock and a hard place.'  _Chandler grimaced as he pondered the figures in his bank account and signed as he realized the choice he was being forced to make.

            Chandler looked directly at his boss, unable to hide his resignation with his decision.  "Just tell me when and where, sir."

            Mr. Kostelick's expression lightened considerably, and he reached for a pen and sheet of paper to write down all the necessary information before leaving Chandler's cubicle.  

            Absently, Chandler stared after him, regretting immediately what he had agreed to do.  Burying his head in his hands, he frantically searched for a way to make it up to Monica.  That's when the idea occurred to him.  While it certainly wasn't his ideal solution, Chandler had to settle on the fact that it was better than nothing.

            And with a guilty conscience and heavy heart, Chandler reached for the phone and began to dial.  

TO BE CONTINUED…

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